


Ceremony

by BoxWineConfessions



Series: Otabek Altin Week 2017 [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Bloodlust, Groping, M/M, Otabek finds biker JJ on the side of the road after a crash, Otabek is a vampire, Otabek turns JJ, classique erotic blood drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 01:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: Otabek has lived for over five hundred years without much trouble, but the instant the dying boy’s eyes flutter open he knows that all of that is about to be torn away from him. For the first time in a very long time, it’s not just the unquenchable thirst that gnaws at his consciousness, but need too.  He hasn’t turned anyone for a very long time, but he needs this boy and he needs him for much longer than one night. He’s lived long enough to know that boys with St. Christopher medals and doe like eyes taste the sweetest. They’re loyal. They grow to become strong, and powerful. He knows that boys that look so peaceful when they’re on the cusp of death, have something worth keeping close and holding dear.





	Ceremony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dizzyt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzyt/gifts).



“Sally Durand was thrown from the windshield, but the coroner said it wouldn’t have killed her instantly. When they did the autopsy, she was dry as a bone.” There’s a rumor that is as old as Route 362 that says there’s a monster that waits in the shadows of dusk for the dead and the dying: girls thrown through windshields, kids that weren’t wearing their seatbelts, and bikers who ate so much pavement the coroner had to beg their mamas to not have an open casket funeral. They say he’s some kind of fallen angel with some kind of dark and depraved brand of mercy.  

“That fag Andrew Martin was found at the rest stop. He looked all shriveled up, like a raisin.” They say he doesn’t always wait for someone to knock on death’s door. They say he’s a terror on two wheels, never trust a loner on a jet black Harley at dark. Yeah right. That’s damn near everybody making their way from Baie-Saint-Paul to La Malbaie. He’s heard that he has eyes that are read like blood. Other times, he has slate black eyes to match his clothes, his hair, and his stifling aura, which can suck the good out of any room, and leave behind nothing but feelings of trepidation. 

Of course, JJ believed none of it. He wore a St. Christopher medal around his neck, and he didn’t have time for superstition. He was King JJ after all, which meant he was king of the rink and king of the open road. 

All he wanted to do was spend whatever time he had between the rink, and classes, and his endorsement deals, riding. He wanted nothing between him and the road save for rubber tires and the purr of an engine. He wanted to forget for a moment everything he still had to do: assignments, quads, photoshoots. 

Being on the road made him feel free. He could go fast, and he could push the engine as hard as he wanted. Best of all, on Route 362 he felt truly, truly alone. Even when he passed up cars, the passengers were obscured by window tint and the black of night. There was no one to talk over, and no one to barge in, and he could hear himself think for once about all the things that no one ever wanted to hear him talk about. 

His favorite stretch is along the St. Lawrence River. The road winds down near the riverside then twists into tumultuous hills that are protected only by a low guard rail. But he loves the ebb and he loves the flow. Even though he cannot see the scenery in the darkness, rolling onto this stretch of road gives him great comfort. Maybe he was crazy for thinking this way. 

But tonight, JJ isn’t alone. Maybe that’s what’s got him thinking about all the stories he’s heard at three A.M. over a diner counter about a monster. As he rises and falls along the hills, he can see the erratic zig and zag of headlights in the opposite direction. It’s cause for concern, sure, but there are plenty of tourists, out of towners, and novices that traverse these roads and make it out on the other side even if they do not know what they’re doing. 

JJ guns the throttle on his baby, a 1972 Yamaha. Bought it off of one of Papa’s friends at the Elk Lodge and pulls forward. The road is long and winding, and he isn’t sleeping tonight.

Inevitably, he catches up to the oncoming car barreling down the street. It’s driving right down the middle of the road. JJ moves to swerve, and so does the other car. He’s blinded by the flash of headlights, and he’s deafened by the crunch of metal. He remembers hitting pavement and seeing red. Then it all goes dark.

* * *

JJ didn’t remember whether or not he told Maman “good night,” or “I love you,” before he went upstairs to bed. He doesn’t even remember if he closed his window on the way down the fire escape. He doesn’t know where he’s hurt, or how he got hurt. All he knows is that he’s very afraid that he’s going to die. 

All he knows is that he’s not ready to die. 

There’s a rumor that some kind of demon wanders down route 362 looking for lost souls. JJ never believed it until he was sprawled out onto the pavement in a pool of his own blood. He opens his eyes slowly. He can feel darkness tug at the corner of his eyes, and pull him backwards. Then, pain shoots through his body pulling him back into consciousness. 

In the shadow of a single, blinding white headlight, he sees not the face of god, or an angel to take him home, but the eerie shape of a figure that  _ looked  _ like a man cast in the moonlight …If that image of man were created by an otherworldly being who had looked upon a man once long ago, and could remember the most important features, but missed the details of things .

His expression was not devoid of emotion, no, quite the opposite. It was pinched, and it was pained, as if he knew he should feel something, but he wasn’t sure what. His eyes drifted over JJ’s body, and then time stood still as JJ watched the tip of his pink tongue poke out between his lips, parting his off colored, purple blue looking lips. 

The man kneels next to him, and speaks to him softly, “You lost something.” His gaze drifts slightly to the left toward the pavement.

JJ looks down at the pavement. In the blood there is a chunk of something solid, and meaty looking. The sight of it makes his stomach twist in on itself, which in turn makes his whole body throb with a blinding hot pain. Consciousness, no, something deeper, something that promises to soothe the pain for real this time, tugs at the tip of his numb fingers, and sooths his eyes closed. 

The stranger’s hand cups the side of his face. He knows this, only because he can feel the stranger’s fingers pinch at his cheeks lightly. “You’re not ready to die are you?” 

JJ believes he tries to respond because, no. No he’s not. He hasn’t gotten the chance to take home gold at Worlds. He hasn’t married Isabella yet. He hasn’t been to the Great Wall of China, and he hasn’t tried baked Alaska, and these are all things that he wanted to do very much. 

* * *

Otabek could feel his heartbeat, faint and indignant. It’s why he pulled over by the wreckage in the first place instead of simply riding on. He doesn’t much care for living up to the so called  _ titles _ given to him by truck drivers, and highway diner waitresses. Monster. Death Angel. Otabek isn’t sure that he’d know mercy if it looked him in the eye and begged. He’s hungry, but not so starved to shatter his low profile. 

He’s lived for over five hundred years without much trouble, but the instant the dying boy’s eyes flutter open he knows that all of that is about to be torn away from him. For the first time in a very long time, it’s not just the unquenchable thirst that gnaws at his consciousness, but need too.  He hasn’t turned anyone for a very long time, but he needs this boy and he needs him for much longer than one night. He’s lived long enough to know that boys with St. Christopher medals and doe like eyes taste the sweetest. They’re loyal. They grow to become strong, and powerful. He knows that boys that look so peaceful when they’re on the cusp of death, have something worth keeping close and holding dear. 

Otabek takes his hand into his palm, nicks the skin, and raises it to his mouth. The stream of blood is slow, because he’s already lost so very much. With just a simple taste upon his lips, everything Otabek  assumed to be true become fact. 

It feels as if he’s drinking blood for the very first time. He tastes so sweet. His eyes roll back into his head, and his whole body trembles as if Otabek were trailing a heavy hand down his body. Breathy little half-whimper half moans slip out of his mouth as pain slips into pleasure. 

All of this, despite the fact that Otabek is chaste to the point of being detached. “Baked Alaska,” his mouth curls into a smile and he kisses his palm. “You’re not going to die Jean-Jacques, but you won’t want baked Alaska either.”Otabek feels his heartbeat grow softer and fainter, as he continues to lap at his hand.  Even as it slows, it is steady, proud, intoxicating and vexing. 

Otabek sees a life that was worth living flash before his eyes. Top exam scores. A pretty girl in a red and white striped dress and perfectly matched lip stain smiled at him as he observes Jean-Jacques’ life. A world class athlete decorated in gold, silver, and bronze. His hands run across velveteen costumes. He felt grains of dry rice slip through his fingers as Jean-Jacques worked at the Toronto food bank…

Then, just as suddenly, and just as strongly as Otabek rode the strong rolling waves of Jean Jacques’ joy, he was pulled under by his sorrows. For every medal that he won, it seemed as if there were times that he took home absolutely nothing. His father liked to yell at him. There are children littered everywhere in these memories, and never quite enough to go around. 

Otabek must wonder how his father will react when they find the crumpled wreckage of his bike. Will he cry, perhaps for the first time in years? Will he shout in anger, unable to process his emotions, or will he feel relieved? One less mouth to feed. 

Otabek pulls back from the wound on his palm, and kisses each of his cold blue fingertips gently. “Jean-Jacques is difficult for me to say. May I call you Jean?” 

Jean stares at him with wide, cloudy eyes. His breaths are shallow and labored. Otabek smooths the blood matted hair away from his face. 

Otabek sinks his teeth into the flesh of his own lip. Immediately he tastes the metallic of his own blood, mingled with Jean’s blood, mingled with the taste of the drifter he fed off of early in the evening. The intermingled taste is pungent on his tongue, but Jean’s palette is not so discerning.   “Close your eyes Jean, it’s only right if I’m about to kiss you.” 

* * *

JJ’s first kiss was on the playground in fourth grade. He spent all of recess making Isabella a flower crown, and she squealed and kissed him on the cheek as a thank you. JJ’s last kiss is from a man named Otabek. He doesn’t say his name, so much as he  _ feels _ the syllables upon his mouth no sooner than their lips are pressed together. 

He can see images of Otabek’s life play out before him. His face is burned by the wind. He raises a gloved arm to the sky and catches a falcon upon the intricate leather. He rides upon horseback for miles and miles. He endures long nights in primitive dwellings, and he sits too far from the campfire to have any relief from the bitter cold. 

He watches as Otabek, this stranger, as his clan cross paths with a large roving caravan. Otabek dances around the fire with a merchant, Otabek drinks wine with a merchant, Otabek kisses the man against the shadows that play against vibrant tapestries. Then, in the still of their shared tent, Otabek is bitten. He sees Otabek crying when the merchant has drained him dry and cast him aside. He sees Otabek crawling into the darkness as the desert sun rises, and another creature takes pity upon him and allows Otabek to lap at his blood. 

In another lifetime, Otabek is reinvented. No longer a simple hunter, he is a prince with a harem of many men. He only steps into the gilded cage of marble and silk after the hot desert sun has sunk into the sand revealing a bright blue moon. 

In another life still, Otabek moves to Europe. He lives simply as an apprentice at an apothecary. 

Onward, and onward, JJ sees many lives worth living, and others that are less than memorable. He sees decades, no, centuries of loneliness and longing for something that he just cannot touch. He doesn’t know Otabek at all, and yet he knows him much more intimately than he knows any other person. 

Otabek pulls back from the kiss, and JJ’s eyes open. It is as if he’s seeing the world for the very first time. It’s still pitch black outside, but every feature in Otabek’s face is crystal clear from the cut of his jaw to the faint flush of blood which colors his otherwise haunting blue gray cheeks. He can taste the air, but not in the way that it sits on his tongue when he’s on the bike. No. Now, he can taste the asphalt, and the ever green trees off the highway, and the blood…God there’s so much blood in the air. His blood, Otabek’s blood. There’s motor oil, and burnt metal, and the smell of something stagnant and dying. It’s him.  He’s not dead, but he certainly hasn’t stopped dying. 

“Otabek,” the other man’s name feels thick on his blood stained tongue. 

“Jean,” Otabek smiles at him softly. 

“People already call me JJ,” he says before slotting his mouth over Otabek’s again. The taste of blood is foul, as if he’d had a fist full of pennies shoved into his mouth, but he wants more. More. More. More. With each pass of his tongue over the spot on Otabek’s mouth, he can feel himself become stronger. He can feel himself become more alive. 

JJ sits up and pushes Otabek over into the pool of blood on the pavement. Never once does it cross his mind that another car could come along this old stretch of highway at any moment and mow them flat. Instead, he dives for the small swath of exposed skin, where the collar of his leather jacket ends. 

He sinks his teeth into the flesh, and the puncture reminds him of biting into an over ripe fruit. Blood immediately floods into his mouth, and no sooner than it’s on his tongue it’s surging through his body. 

“You’re not one much for discretion are you?” Otabek chuckles dryly. 

“I want more. I want you,” JJ rolls his hips into Otabek’s. At the very least, he’s hard too. JJ takes comfort in that. He says in between sloppy, blood filled kisses, “isn’t this better than me freaking out that I’m dead?” As each second passes, the reality of the last few minutes set in and so does the hysteria.  The only thing that’s keeping him together right now is the undeniable, unquenchable  _ thirst. _ “Cause that’s what I am right? I’m dead. So are you. Like something out of the movies.” 

Otabek threads his fingers into his hair, pushes him back down onto the pavement. Hard. It’s the kind of thing that should’ve hurt. He feels the impact with every fiber of his body, but it does not hurt. Instead, the feeling is a glowing warm, sadistic celebration of his new body. 

“Yeah,” Otabek admits. Otabek grinds his palm into JJ’s crotch, and JJ cants upward into it with raw inhuman need. “Look,” Otabek shreds what’s left of his burned out shirt, exposing the St. Christopher medal around his neck. The skin there looks red and raw around it, as if he’d been spilled with acid. The gaping wound in his stomach is gone. 

JJ can’t think about this. He can’t fucking handle this. So he kisses Otabek, and he ruts up into Otabek, and he drinks from Otabek desperate to quench the thirst, but the relief never comes. They part from what could be their hundredth, or their thousandth sloppy kiss. Their foreheads are pressed together, and everything smells like blood. 

“It’s not like that anymore,” Otabek breathes into his ear, and grinds his hand down upon his crotch once again. He catches JJ’s lip between his teeth, and bites down hard enough to draw blood. 

JJ inhales sharply as his skin tears away like tissue paper. He can feel blood flow out of his body. He can feel the wound throb. He can feel Otabek pressed against him aching hard, and he can feel the tension in his body explode as Otabek drinks more and more of their intermingled blood. 

Otabek pulls away from him, only to plant a small peck onto his mouth. Blood is smeared down his face. 

“We should go.” Like it’s nothing at all, like Otabek cannot comprehend the fire and the hunger that tears through him, even though it  _ feels _ like he just came. It feels like nothing happened at all. Otabek acts like he cannot comprehend, although he must, Otabek gets up and walks towards his own bike, parked on the side of the road. “Coming with me or not? 

JJ can hear the rustle of the trees and the grass. He can hear the sound of a hawk’s wings flapping in take off. He can hear the scream of sirens in the distance. But….but he can’t hear the sound of their hearts beating. 


End file.
